


into the wild blue

by cosmicbees



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Small Town, Alternate Universe - Western, Cowboy Keith (Voltron), M/M, Slow Burn, Teacher Shiro (Voltron), Veteran Shiro (Voltron), i can't believe i just had to make a tag for that, y'all have been sleeping on cowboy keith
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-07-24
Updated: 2018-08-24
Packaged: 2019-06-13 09:48:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,231
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15361806
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cosmicbees/pseuds/cosmicbees
Summary: Shiro can't fix everything by himself, but there's a cowboy who can help.The truck is old, paint faded from the passage of time like so many pieces of this town, and he fully expects the driver to be weathered just the same. Instead, he looks up to see a young man--no older than Shiro is himself, rounding the vehicle’s tailgate, and moving up the driveway.He’s slim, but his shoulders have been broadened by what Shiro can only assume are years of hard work. One hand is raised in greeting, while the other positions a creamy white cowboy hat aloft a head of wild black hair, and he offers Shiro a simple smile.“Howdy,” he says at last, as he pulls Shiro into a handshake. His palms are calloused, but warm, and Shiro notices a smattering of freckles dusted across the bridge of his nose, “you must be Shiro.”





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> A couple of weeks ago I decided that Keith would look really cute in a cowboy hat, and I started an outline for this.
> 
> A couple of days ago, about halfway through writing the first chapter, I refined my Sheith Ao3 search results to include "Alternate Universe - Western" and was disappointed to find a measly six (6) western AU Sheith fics. 
> 
> Anyway, be the change you want to see in the world, and all that, so as of today there are seven (7) western Sheith AUs on Ao3.
> 
> Title from [Cowboy Take Me Away by Dixie Chicks](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=MdkIJm65ytMhttps://www.youtube.com/watch?v=MdkIJm65ytM)

There’s no posted speed limit.

Shiro has been barreling down the same, unmarked dirt road for the last fifteen minutes, kicking up a hazy cloud of dust a mile long before he realizes that there hasn’t been a speed limit sign in miles. In fact, there hasn’t been any kind of traffic sign since he turned off of the narrow two-lane highway, and on to the washboarded gravel that he is currently traveling.

He tightens his grip on the steering wheel, and he takes a deep breath in, taking in the blur of beige and buff landscape as it whirs past his window. Other small roads break off periodically in different directions, and the occasional speck of pale green yucca breaks the monotony, dotting the landscape intermittently--the only color that’s crossed his line of sight other than a small, yellow-breasted lark that flits in front of his car.

A dark shadow on the horizon draws Shiro’s attention, redirecting his gaze through the windshield again, where a low-lying blanket of leafy trees rests on a narrow swath of land, marking his destination in the distance. With the end in sight, the remainder of his journey passes quickly, and within minutes, Shiro is pulling into what can only be classified as a ‘town’ in the loosest sense, greeted by a hand painted sign that reads, simply:

 

**_WELCOME TO GARRISON_ **

**_HOME OF THE PALADINS_ **

 

Shiro slows his approach. On the outermost edge of town sits a rodeo ring that looks like it has seen better days. The area is overgrown with weeds, and the fencing around the arena is shabby, with flaking blue paint. It stands in contrast to the neighboring community park, well-kept with a gazebo and swing set. Shiro catalogs the other features of the town as he drives past. A post office and fire station stand opposite a cemetery, and on the corner of one street is a little cafe, the sign in the window flashes _‘OPEN’_ in neon letters which are bright, even in the glaring brightness of midday.

He pulls into the driveway of a little house on the edge of town that will be his home for the next year, and closes his eyes, breathing deeply in an attempt to center himself. He’s early for his meeting by almost a full half an hour.

When Shiro finally opens his car to the outside world, the first thing he notices is the silence. The tiny town of Garrison is hot, dry, dusty, dull brown, probably abandoned, but first and foremost, it is _quiet_.

It’s not the kind of silence he is used to, manufactured by white noise machines or earplugs; instead it’s a silence where the only noise is the rustling of leaves in the summer breeze, and a distant birdsong. It’s the kind of quiet that settles deep into Shiro’s bones within moments of him stepping out of his car into the sweltering mid-July heat, sitting latent and heavy in the back of his skull, and lulling the anxiety in his chest into something softer.

The second thing he notices is the house, half-obscured by massive lilac bushes. It’s small--barely a bungalow on its best of days, with a vivid green metal roof that matches the trim around the door and windows. The white stucco on the sides is in a sad state of disrepair, peeling in some places, stained by dirt and moss in others. Shiro wasn’t expecting this, but he isn’t surprised, either.

“Like what you see?” a voice, lilting with a soft accent sounds beside Shiro, and he turns on his heel to face the woman to which it belongs. She lets out a soft laugh, and holds a hand up, soothing, “Sorry, I didn’t mean to alarm you,” she pauses again, and checks the watch on her wrist, “You’re early.”

“You’re fine,” he assures, letting the tension seep out of his shoulders, “In the military if you’re not 15 minutes early, then you’re late. I just wasn’t expecting anyone yet. You must be Ms. Atwood?”

“Please,” she tucks a loose section of wavy, platinum hair behind her ear, and reaches a hand out as she steps forward, “call me Allura. You’re Takashi, I assume?”

“Shiro,” he replies, accepting the proffered handshake, “I’m only Takashi to my parents.”

“I’m only Ms. Atwood to my students,” she says, and offers Shiro an easy smile, which he returns in earnest. “

Allura appraises him for a moment, head cocked. The ringlet of hair that she’d fixed only a moment before tumbles out from behind her ear again, and she says, “Come along, I’ll show you the house.”

“How old is this place?” Shiro asks, trailing behind Allura as she steps up of the front porch. He notices two sets of tiny handprints stamped into the cement, with a _‘53_ inscribed beside them. They are barely visible anymore, placed along one of the worn corners of the stoop, and Shiro’s heart aches at the realization that the handprints are being lost, literally disintegrating into dust as rain, wind, and the passage of time claims them.

Allura pauses, loosening her grip on the doorknob, and offers Shiro, who is kneeling down to run a hand over the crumbling concrete, a small, sad smile. “Early 1940s,” she replies, “It used to belong to the Newman’s. Ruth lived in this house for over sixty years, before she passed a few winters back, but the rest of the family moved away years ago. Last I heard, her granddaughter runs a law firm out of Denver.”

Shiro nods, and the aching in his heart feels deeper than before. Resonant.

“The handprints on the far right, the little ones,” she crouches down beside him and points to the pair that has almost completely disappeared, “those are hers, the other pair were her brother, Teddy’s.”

“Oh,” Shiro flattens his right palm against Ruth Newman’s childhood handprint, much smaller than his own, and frowns a little, “Why’d they leave?”

“Her family?” Allura asks, and waits for Shiro’s nod before continuing, “Probably because jobs in Garrison are few and far between unless you’re a rancher or farmer. You can’t make a living on doing nothing, so people have to leave sometimes.” She’s silent for a moment longer, while Shiro takes it in, hand still pressed to the pavement, “Let’s go inside, it’s hot out here.”

Shiro finally rises, and follows her into the house, carefully stepping over the imprints. It’s stuffy inside, the air sits hot, thick, and stagnant with dust and age, trapped by thick curtains and sealed windows. Shiro leaves the door open behind him, and moves to the nearest window, pushing the curtains aside, and pushing the window pane up, and open. Allura hums her approval before moving away to another part of the house, and Shiro hears the familiar creak of opening windows from another room.

Shiro moves slowly, assessing the home from the inside.

The interior isn’t in much better shape than the exterior is, but at least the paint inside is intact. The walls are cast in warm cream, adorned in images of western landscapes. Above a burgundy corduroy sofa is a sizeable painting, featuring a cowboy with a vivid red ascot on horseback, lasso in hand. Across from that, beside a doorway is a significantly smaller painting, this time of a group of native americans, gathered around a fire.

Shiro’s mouth quirks up at the corners in amusement, and he follows a threadbare hallway runner rug to a hallway junction. Directly in front of him is a bathroom, with sunny yellow walls and an old, claw-foot bathtub sitting opposite a white enamel medicine cabinet. To his left is a bedroom, converted hastily into an office by a desk, pressed up against the far wall, and a single rolling chair. To the right is another bedroom with a simple brass bed and an old, waterfall-style dresser. The sun shines in from a pair of windows on which the curtains have been thrown wide open, casting beams of light across the room, through which dance little specks of dust.

Allura looks up at him from where she is smoothing the blankets across the mattress, and asks “have you seen the kitchen yet?” She smiles, knowingly, when he shakes his head in response, and gestures for him to follow her again.

Shiro notices for the first time the shabby state of the hardwood floors that run through the entirety of the house. They’re worn down by time, and the only traces of finish that remain are on the edges of rooms, and in corners where feet rarely tread. Shiro rounds a doorway--the one with the painting of the campfire, and can’t help but grin when Allura turns on a heel, to stand in the middle of the kitchen, arms spread and grin wide across her face. It’s easily the biggest room in the house, spacious enough to fit a breakfast table, as well as an avocado green gas stove and refrigerator that are probably a solid twenty years older than Shiro is himself.

“That door,” she gestures towards a narrow exit beside the wooden table, “leads to the back garden.”

The backyard of the house is small, surrounded by a picket fence with white, peeling paint. A broken tire swing still hangs from an elm tree, the leaves of which filter the sunlight into little dappled patches across the overgrown grass.

“It’s not much,” Allura says, stepping up beside Shiro, “But with a little bit of fixing up, it should be fine.”

“No,” he replies, speaking for the first time in a long time, “it’s nice. It’s cozy.”

“It needs some work,” she points out, “No one has lived here consistently in a long while. After Ruth passed, she left the house to the school district. We’ve had so many teachers in and out of here in the last few years, and they only ever stayed during the school week. As soon as the weekend came up, they’d leave town.”

Shiro is quiet, thoughtful for a long moment before he asks, “Why didn’t anyone stay?”

“The same reason everyone leaves,” Allura concedes, “Rural America is dying, and it’s taking its people with it. Young teachers don’t want to stay in a place like this. They want a vibrant city, something loud. We’re just quiet out here.”

“I don’t mind quiet,” Shiro admits, voice low, “I’ve had enough noise for a lifetime.”

They stand side by side, silent for a beat. The only sound is the distant _coo_ of a dove, and Shiro looks over to where Allura is giving him a soft smile, “Glad to hear it.”

 

*****

 

Allura manages to wrangle Shiro into a cup of coffee and lunch at the town’s rundown cafe. Affectionately dubbed ‘Hunk’s Place,’ it functions first and foremost as the watering hole for the residents of Garrison and the surrounding area. Pickup trucks line the street outside of the building, and nearly every table is occupied when Allura and Shiro enter, and over the course of the next hour, Shiro is introduced to dozens of the town’s residents.

“This is Shiro. He’s our new high school science teacher,” Allura says, directing Shiro’s attention to a shriveled old man named Iverson who, even standing up, has a permanent hunch to his back.

“Good to meet you, son.” He nods, shaking Shiro’s hand and appraising him with his one good eye before tottering away on stiff legs.

Shiro is discussing the semantics of teaching disinterested high schoolers with Allura, when something draws her gaze to a spot just over the top of his head. Within moments, a tall man with deep, golden-brown skin is settling into the empty seat beside Allura.

“Hey babe,” he says, voice bright as leans over to press a kiss to Allura’s cheek, arm slung across the back of her chair

Her face scrunches up, and she pulls away from the embrace,”you smell like cow.”

“Yeah?” He laughs leaning back in, and presses his face into the side of her neck, “well you’re marrying a cowboy. Best get used to it.”

Shiro averts his gaze from the couple that sits across from him, picking halfheartedly at the remnants of a sandwich he had abandoned earlier, instead, while Allura laughs “I’ve been informed.

“You must be the new teacher?” The man asks shifting his attention across the table, and Shiro jerks his head back up. Before he can open his mouth to affirm the statement, a hand is jutting out in his direction, “I’m Lance.” 

“Hi,” Shiro replies, as Lance pulls him into a firm, jarring handshake, “I am. I’m Shiro. It’s nice to meet you.” 

“You too,” Lance replies, settling back down beside Allura, and reaching over to steal a couple of cold french fries from her plate. He looks at Shiro for a long moment, before asking “So how’d you end up all the way out here?”

“Oh, um,” Shiro shifts nervously in his seat, “An old friend of mine has a sister that teaches here, and she told me that there was a position available. I needed something new, something quiet, I suppose. I’ve never lived in a place like this before.”

“Yeah? You from a city?” Shiro nods, and Lance lets out a low whistle, “Welcome to Garrison, then. Who’d you know over at the school? Was it Pidge? I think she’s mentioned a brother before.”  
Shiro nods again, “it’s Katie, yeah.”

“Well we’re glad to have you around, Shiro. Lord knows we need good teachers out here. The kids deserve it.”

“I’ll do my best,” Shiro offer Lance a weak smile, and earns a sunshine-bright grin in response as the other man leans back in his chair, arms crossed over his chest.

“I’m holding you to it.”

 

*****

 

Shiro moves through the house quietly in the late hours of the evening. Padding around on socked feet as he scatters the few belongings he’d brought with him throughout the house. A family photo from a few years back sits on the end table below the painting of the rodeo cowboy. The same brand of shampoo he has been using for years is tucked into a cubby beside the shower. He drapes a familiar, threadbare blue blanket across the foot of the bed.

It’s not home—not yet, but Shiro does his best to make it feel like it is, despite the unfamiliar, warm breeze that pushes in through the window screens long after the sun has set, and he has drifted to sleep.

Shiro dreams of the scalding summer pavement he’d grown accustomed to as a child. Sticky wet summers spent between the New York City streets, and weekend trips to the Hamptons. Loose asphalt gravel and sand stuck to the bottoms of his feet in equal measure, time spent running between both brownstones and beaches. When he wakes, it’s in a daze of hazy half-formed memories.

The humid, salt-kissed summers of his childhood are replaced by crisp morning air, laced with the distant scent of fresh-cut grass. Shiro blinks, slowly, willing the morning grit from behind his bleary eyes when his cellphone lets out a sharp _buzz_ from the nightstand. He ignores it, squeezing his eyes closed, but the notification sounds again. With a huff of irritation he forces himself up, perched on the edge of the mattress.

 _‘Do you need any groceries? I’m taking a trip to town this morning if you’d like to come.’_ the text reads. It’s an unfamiliar number, not saved to his phone, but Shiro assumes it to be Allura. He checks the time on the top of his screen, 7:23, and takes a moment to internally calculate how long his sparse provisions will last before shooting back an affirmative.

 _‘Excellent!’_ the response comes almost immediately, _‘I’ll be over at about 10.’_

Shiro sighs, and pushes himself to his feet. His body feels stiff from the night spent in an unfamiliar bed, and Shiro’s shoulder and arm ache. The pain is sharp when Shiro pulls his right shoulder back in a stretch. It is more pronounced than the usual, ambient throbbing that exists almost entirely in his peripherals at this point. He grits his teeth against the feeling, and tries to release the tension he can already feel building along his spine, desperate for relief.

When no relief comes, he settles for Advil and a cup of strong, black coffee instead.

 

*****

 

Allura notices the hard set of Shiro’s shoulder’s the second he steps foot out of the house, and she’s combing him over with sharp, critical eyes as he approaches her car. She rolls the window down, as he draws close, “How are you feeling today, Shiro?”

“I’m fine,” he smiles tightly in response, “I just reaggravated an old injury.”

Her gaze follows him as he rounds the car to the passenger’s side door, knowingly, but she says nothing more, for which Shiro finds himself immensely grateful. Instead, she’s simply says, “I’m glad you agreed to come. It’s best to have someone show you around if you’re new to the area. It’s easy to get lost out here.”

Shiro hums in response, eyes fixed on some point just beyond the horizon. “How far do we have to go?” He asks after a spell of silence.

“Altea is about 45 minutes from Garrison,” Allura says, “it’s the closest town to us, and has most of the amenities you’ll need. Supermarket, a few restaurants, a hardware store, a hospital. Anything you can’t find there you’ll have to find in Arus, which is another 30 minutes away from Altea--which reminds me. Altea also has the closest gas station to Garrison so any time you’re in town, be sure to fill up.”

“Oh.”

Allura grimaces, a bit apologetic, and changes the subject to the approaching school year.

They fall into an easy conversation as the morning passes, and move slowly through town. Allura points out little landmarks along the way: The soda fountain that has been run by the same family since the 1930s. The county fair grounds. A statue in the park of a local cowboy who has become more myth than man as the years have passed. When Shiro asks questions she supplies eager answers.

The pain in Shiro’s shoulder grows as the day wears on.

Allura watches him when they are loading their groceries into her car at the end of the trip, brow furrowing more and more each time he winces.

“It’s more than you’re letting on, isn’t it?” She asks, finally, as they pull into Shiro’s driveway, cutting into Shiro’s discussion of the repairs the house needs to undergo.

“I don’t know--”

“Your shoulder,” She interrupts his already weak protest, and Shiro has the wherewithal to look cowed by her tone of voice, “or arm. I can’t tell if its one, or the other, or both. The pain is worse than you’re letting on, though. Isn’t it?”

Shiro nods, stiffly, “It’s fine, though.”

“Is it?” She pauses, but Shiro doesn’t answer, “You’re talking about repairing things around the house. I can find someone to help with some of the heavy lifting.”

“I’ll be okay,” He insists, but his voice is unsteady at this point. It sounds like a lie even to him.

She levels him with a scrutinous gaze, “If that changes, let me know.”

 

*****

 

Shiro’s life settles into a routine over the following week. He throws himself into both lesson planning and minor repairs around the house. In the back corner of the yard is a tiny utility shed, obscured by an enormous honeysuckle vine, in which Shiro finds a weathered, folding card table, and a myriad of lawn chairs which he uses to set up a makeshift work space under the backyard elm.

Most days he putters around the house, performing little tasks until his arm or shoulder seize up, forcing him to relocate to the rickety card table, where he will sit, writing lesson plans for the upcoming semester until the dusty purple haze of dusk forces him inside. Allura stops by on Friday evening, and finds Shiro in the kitchen, crouching to examine a window sill.

“It’s leaking,” he explains, running his left hand along where the wall is starting to warp beneath the window, “it rained this morning, and I noticed it for the first time.”

She crouches down beside him, and leans in close to the damage, “I know someone who might be able to help you if you’re interested,” She murmurs, looking pointedly at the way his right arm is pressed in close to his chest, “This is gonna be a lot of work.”

“Yeah,” Shiro concedes finally, head dipping low, “I could use some help.”

 

*****

 

It’s not until Sunday morning while Shiro sits in the mottled shade of his front yard, reading a book in one of the folding lawn chairs he had planted on the front porch that help arrives.

The massive burgundy pickup rumbles as it pulls to a stop in front of Shiro’s house, pulling his attention from the novel clutched in his hand. The truck is old, paint faded from the passage of time like so many pieces of this town, and he fully expects the driver to be weathered just the same. Instead, he looks up to see a young man--no older than Shiro is himself, rounding the vehicle’s tailgate, and moving up the driveway.

He’s slim, but his shoulders have been broadened by what Shiro can only assume are years of hard work. One hand is raised in greeting, while the other positions a creamy white cowboy hat aloft a head of wild black hair, and he offers Shiro a simple smile.

“Howdy,” he says at last, as he pulls Shiro into a handshake. His palms are calloused, but warm, and Shiro notices a smattering of freckles dusted across the bridge of his nose, “You must be Shiro.”

“I am,” The other man’s grip tightens on his own for a brief moment before letting go. Shiro cocks his head at that, curious.

“I’m Keith. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A single distant, but very loud, YEEEEEEHAW
> 
>  
> 
> Come yell at me on [tumblr](https://patienceyieldslove.tumblr.com) or [twitter](https://twitter.com/sheithinlove) for publishing nearly 3.7k of boring exposition.


	2. Chapter 2

Shiro heard tell of cowboys as a young child. Lonesome cattlemen that roam the plains on horseback, and sleep under the stars with a six-shooter strapped to their hip. Wild west gunslingers who consume whiskey and women in the back corners of dimly-lit saloons. They are rough and tumble, self-made men who went west on horseback and disappeared into the desert forever.

Deep down Shiro knows this is stupid; cowboys exist as part of some great American mythos manifested, never entirely real, but tangible enough that even he can envision them. The images rest in the dusty corners of his mind, grainy and worn in pale hues of endless blue skies blanketing rolling plains.

Somehow Keith embodies every cowboy that Shiro has ever encountered in film, in book, in song. From the hat on his head down to the scuffed, well loved boots than adorn his feet, and every mannerism in between, Keith is a cowboy. He takes the hat from his head when he enters the house, and looks on quietly when Shiro speaks. When Keith responds, he does so in a soft drawl--its not a southern accent by any stretch of the imagination, but it pulls words from his mouth long and slow like molasses nonetheless.

“So, you said your window was leakin’?” He leans in close to where Shiro has been nervously trying to explain the water damage in his kitchen for at least ten minutes.

“Yeah, I think so.” Shiro replies with a quick nod.

Keith hums thoughtfully, reaching a hand out for the wall and splaying his palm across it. Shiro watches as he drags his fingers along the bottom length of the window and up the side. He pauses when his hand is well over his head and looks over a shoulder to where Shiro stands, arms crossed over his chest, observing. “Do you have a ladder around anywhere?” he asks, but when Shiro hesitates he brushes it off, tilting his head towards the kitchen table instead, “nevermind that. Mind if I stand on a chair?”

Shiro turns to grab one of the dining room chairs that Keith had motioned towards, replies “no, not at all,” and hauls it over to the window.

Keith clambers atop the tiny chair deftly, and resumes his path, tracing the edges of the window frame, with widespread fingers “It’s more than just the window,” he says, and pushes on the drywall above his head, at the juncture of the ceiling and wall.

It gives under the pressure of his hand and Shiro lets out a low, “shit.”

“You only noticed it under the window because that’s where the water is pooling,” he points out, “but the whole wall is completely soaked.”

“How do I fix that?” Shiro groans, scrubbing a hand across his face. Of course he’d move into a home that leaks in a little town in the middle of nowhere. He’s mentally kicking himself when Keith interrupts his thoughts.

“Depends,” he shrugs, “I’ll have to take a look outside to see what’s going on. It might be an easy enough fix.”

Keith leads Shiro outside, dragging the wooden chair along with him, and sets it up just outside of Shiro’s kitchen window. “Okay, so that’s our problem,” Keith says after several minutes of examination. “You see this crack here,” he points at a fissure in the wood fascia that lines the underside of the home’s eaves, “it’s probably been taking water in, and leaking into the wall.”

“Oh.” Shiro is lost for a response and simply tilts his head up, trying to fully understand what Keith is saying, “So we’ve got to fix this first, then the inside wall will be fine?”

“We’ll need to replace the wall inside. It might not dry out entirely, and you don’t want it to grow mold.” Keith answers, stepping down from the chair, “We’ll have to do it soon though, before we get another toad choker. I don’t want that to leak any more than it already has.”

“A what?”

“A….uh….toad choker?” Keith notices the look of utter bafflement on Shiro’s face, and his brows furrow, “Have you never heard that before?”

Shiro snorts, “No, I haven’t. What is that supposed to mean?”

“When it rains a lot, the toads come out,” Keith replies, and the hunch of his shoulder is suddenly a bit self conscious, “It’s supposed to be about how when it rains, there’s too much water in the ground. It’s a toad choker of a rainstorm.”

Shiro coughs out a laugh, “I’ve never heard that before.”

“I reckon that its a pretty strange thing to hear, then,” Keith rubs a nervous hand across the back of his neck, and shifts his gaze to the ground where he is digging the toe of his boot into the soft dirt.

Shiro pauses for a moment, and shrugs, “I’ve heard stranger things than that.”

Keith chuckles, then looks back up at the cracked soffit, “I’ll see if I can’t swing by tomorrow and get that fixed up.”

The next half an hour is spent snaking a path through the house, taking note of things that need to be fixed. Keith moves through the house slowly, steadily, the dull _thunk_ of boot heels on hardwood trailing behind him along with Shiro.

And it’s awkward. It’s uncomfortable. Shiro feels hot shame rising in his throat a bit more every time Keith mentions another flaw. It’s not Shiro’s home, and the few personal effects he has scattered throughout do not make it so, but it’s still supposed to be _his_. He knows he should try to take better care of it. Even something so small as the loose door handle to the office puts Shiro on edge--he should have fixed this already.

Keith is kind, though. His words carry no evident judgement, no biting criticisms. Just facts, observations, and little words of encouragement. “This is an easy fix,” he says, gesturing to the bathroom tap, which drips at irregular intervals, “I can show you how if you’d like?”

“You don’t have to,” Shiro says each time Keith offers to repair something in the home. Each time Shiro tries to brush aside his offers Keith shrugs, a little, halfhearted thing, and changes the subject.

He asks Shiro simple questions about insignificant things: Has he seen the classroom he’ll be teaching in for the year yet? (Yes, Allura had shown him just yesterday. It’s small, but the windows that line the south side cast the room in a cheery light.) Has he tried any of the pies at Hunk’s yet? (He has. It was the best cherry pie he’s ever had.) Is he liking Garrison so far? (Shiro still isn’t sure, if he’s honest, but he replies with a quiet yes, anyway.)

When Keith leaves, it is with a brief nod, and the promise that he’ll be by soon to help him fix the cracked eaves. He hands his phone to Shiro, with a blank contact page pulled up.

Keith asks Shiro if it’s okay to text him. (Of course it is, why wouldn’t it be?)

 

*****

 

Shiro doesn’t actually expect Keith to text him any time soon. From the little he was able to gather from their stilted conversation, Keith busies himself with work on his ranch most days, so when his phone buzzes a short thirty minutes later he’s dumbstruck.

 _‘I found some stuff that should work for the soffit,’_ the text reads, _‘mind if i stop by tomorrow?’_

Shiro shoots back an affirmative only after he’s stared at the phone in his hand for longer than strictly necessary, and receives a _‘:)’_ in response almost immediately.

He doesn’t open the message right away. Instead, Shiro ignores the notification, and walks away, leaving his phone on the kitchen table while he wanders outside. He has explored the town in small doses so far, choosing a new side road every day, and slowly whittling away slivers of Garrison.

His first adventure had led him to an old dilapidated building with the windows blown out and the roof caving in. Shiro had stood on his tiptoes, hands perched on the barren windowsill to look inside. The inside was scattered with the detritus of time--an old chalkboard hung on the wall, a few broken desks, and tumbleweeds gathered in the corners. A tarnished metal plaque posted proudly above the building’s front door reads “Public School 1915” in bold.

Shiro’s second adventure led him to a phone booth on the edges of town. At first sight Shiro thought it to be a joke, sitting in an otherwise empty lot, with a single yard light illuminating it in a pale yellow-gold against the dark of night. Upon further examination, however, the phone booth proved to be not only very real, but the payphone within to be very functional as well. He jogged home just to find a handful of change he could use to call his mother, the dull drone of the dial tone sending a thrill up his spine. When his mother had answered the phone, Shiro couldn’t hold back the delighted laughter that spilled forth at her confusion. “There’s a phone booth mom!” He had exclaimed, leaning against the glass wall, head tilted back to look at the flickering, exposed bulb overhead, “This town has an honest to god phone booth in the middle of a field.”

Most of the adventures lead him to Hunk’s Place, though. Hunk, as it turns out, is an actual person, tall and broad with a warm smile, and not just a mythical namesake. “I didn’t think you were real,” Shiro admitted sheepishly when the man had greeted him at the door one afternoon. Hunk had responded with a shrug and a laugh and offered Shiro a cup of coffee and a piece of pie on the house in return. The pie has become a fixture of many of Shiro’s evenings over the past week, and so far he’s tried the cherry pie, the apple pie, and strawberry rhubarb.

They’ve all been excellent.

His feet take him back to Hunk’s today, and Shiro is surprised to see fewer vehicles than usual parked along the street outside. The tables inside are even more sparsely occupied, a few of Garrison’s older residents grouped at one, and in the corner Hunk’s figure obscures the other table.

The _click_ of the closing door draws Hunk’s attention, and he turns with a wave, “hi Shiro!”

“Shiro?” A head of disheveled auburn hair pokes out from around Hunk’s torso, “Shiro!” A blur comes streaking past Hunk, and presses itself into Shiro, arms wrapped around him, “Shiro, it’s so good to see you!”

“Katie,” Shiro takes a startled step back, hands bracketing her shoulders, “nice to see you too!”

She moves to push her glasses back up from where they’ve slid down her nose, and squints at him, “Oh, so _now_ you’ll call me Katie?”

“You’ve been telling me to call you Katie for years!” Shiro shrugs, laughter lacing the edge of his words.

The corner of her mouth twitches. It’s a small thing, but Shiro still smirks when she says, “because you and Matt have been calling me Pidge for years.”

“Sure have,” Shiro says reaching out to ruffle her hair, “you’ve gotten tall, kid. Haven’t seen you in a while.”

She dodges his hand and grins up at him, “maybe if you visited more often you’d have noticed. Mom and Dad have been ragging on Matt and I because you haven’t been over for dinner in _years._ ”

“You and Matt haven’t lived with your parents in years,” Shiro points out. He had spent most of his weekends at the Holt’s when he was in college, dragged along initially by Matt, whose parents were desperate to meet his roommate-cum-best friend. The Holts became his second family, and a home away from home.

“I get that,” Pidge says, beginning a slow walk back to her table, “but Mom and Dad don’t care.”

Shiro settles himself in the booth across from her, and gratefully accepts a mug from Hunk, who disappears into the kitchen only to emerge a moment later with sizeable piece of pie.

“It’s sweet potato, today,” he says setting it down in front Shiro, who clasps his hands in front of his face, and takes a steadying breath in.

“Thank you, Hunk.” he says, hands still folded as if in prayer. Hunk hangs around the table for several minutes, arguing amiably with Pidge until one of the older men across the room calls him over with a question.

Pidge leans across the table after Hunk retreats, a conspiratorial look flashing across her face.“Never repeat this to anyone,” she warns, voice low, “If you do, I’ll kill you, but Hunk’s sweet potato pie is better than mom’s.”

Shiro takes an eager bite at that, and leans his head back against the booth behind him, mumbling through a mouthful of crumbs, “oh my god you’re right.”

“Don’t be gross, Shiro.” Pidge scolds, but she’s looking at him fondly over her glasses nonetheless.

The two sit in amicable silence for a spell before he leans across the table and points his fork accusingly at Pidge. “I was starting to think you’d skipped town. You haven’t replied to any of my texts.”

“The truth,” Pidge holds her hands up placatingly, “is that I dropped my phone in my sink full of dishwater last week, and haven’t made it in to town yet to get a new one!”

Shiro hums, disapproving more than anything, but there’s still a smile on his face, “funny how you couldn’t even stop by.”

“I didn’t know if you were accepting visitors,” her voice drops low and her response is barely above a whisper, “I know you haven’t been feeling up to much since the accident. Matt hasn’t even seen you since you got out of the hospital, and that was nearly two years ago, Shiro. I didn’t want to be presumptuous.”

“Oh,” Shiro falters, and the laughter behind his eyes dies, slow and cold, “I...um...I actually really appreciate that.”

“Yeah,” Pidge shrugs and reaches across the table to steal a bite of Shiro’s pie with the spoon she’d been stirring her coffee with, “you’ve always been a private person. I don’t want to violate that privacy, or your trust.”

Shiro just stares at her, quiet for long moment before casting his eyes down to half empty cup of coffee in front of him, “god, Pidge. When did you grow up?”

The smile returns to her face, and she snatches the half-eaten piece of pie from him, “I could ask you the same thing, gramps. Your hair is already going gray.”

Shiro kicks at her under the table, and tries to wrestle the little plate back from her. A kicking match, a fit of giggles and a scolding from Hunk later, Pidge is gifted with her own slice, and Shiro with a sizeable bruise on his calf.

 

*****

 

He doesn’t anticipate Keith arriving bright and early the following day, but Shiro wakes with the sun anyway. The room is already hot and stuffy when he rises, the July heat seeping into every corner of the home even in the early morning hours when shuffles into the kitchen, swipes his phone from where it rests on the table forgotten the night before, and sets to making himself a cup of coffee.

Shiro settles himself on the front porch step, one hand wrapped around a mug, the other withdrawing his phone from his pocket. The only notification is Keith’s message from the night before, and he opens it, replying to the text with _‘youre welcome over any time.’_

Keith arrives in the early afternoon, and holds a bulky, misshapen, plastic grocery bag out in greeting.

“Uh,” Shiro accepts it hesitantly, and tries to scrub the confusion out of his voice, “thank you.”

“They’re veggies,” Keith explains, head bobbing along with his words, “I figured you could use ‘em.”

Shiro peers into the plastic bag. It is indeed filled with vegetables--a zucchini the size of his forearm, a couple of onions, and dozens of fat, red cherry tomatoes. He looks back up at where Keith is smiling at him softly and says, “you didn’t have to.”

“I know,” he shrugs, “but you don’t got a garden like most folks around here do. I’ve got so much growing right now, I couldn’t eat it all if I tried.”

“Oh,” Shiro can feel an embarrassed flush rising in the tips of his ears, and he turns to face the house quickly, “thank you, then.”

Keith follows him to the threshold of the door, and pauses. Shiro notes the lack of footsteps behind him, and looks over his shoulder to where Keith is politely waiting just outside of the house. “You can come in, you know?”

Keith steps inside, “I didn’t want to assume.”

And Shiro can’t help but laugh a little at that, waving him in further. “Would you like anything to drink? Some coffee or tea or something?”

Keith shakes his head, says “no, thank you,” and instead redirects Shiro attention to his plan for fixing the leak in his house. They’ll tackle the outside today--tear out the damaged portion of the soffit and replace it, repaint it, and call it a day.

After he runs over the plan of attack, Keith moves them both back outside, dropping the tailgate of his truck to start pulling supplies. Shiro winces when he hauls a ladder out, noting a spike in the dull thrum of pain that’s been pulsing near his elbow since he woke this morning. He turns to Keith after he settles it near the kitchen window, and sighs “I’m not sure how much help I’ll be today.” He’s quiet. Embarrassed.

“Don’t worry about it,” Keith waves a hand dismissively, but his voice is kind, and he smiles at Shiro “I don’t reckon there’s gonna be room on the ladder for more than one of us, anyway.”

“You sure?”

“Yeah,” Keith laughs, already scaling the ladder, “unless you think you can shimmy up here next to me?”

Shiro can’t help but crack a smile at that, and hands a hammer to Keith that he’d been pointing at. “Do you suppose that something is living up there?” He’s eyeing the crack in the wood suspiciously, “that’s pretty big.”

Keith grins down at him, brandishing the hammer with a mischievous glint in his eyes, “only one way to find out.”

 

*****

 

Keith works methodically over the next couple of hours, prying rotted wood from the eaves, and replacing it. Shiro mostly watches, occasionally reaching up to hand supplies or a cold drink to Keith. The conversation between them is easy, but it’s burning hot outside, and by the time Keith has finished securing the final screw, the sun is beating down on them, resting low enough in the sky that the trees provide no respite from its rays.

“I wish I could have been more helpful,” Shiro says, offering a glass of iced tea to Keith when the two of them settle into the folding chairs that Shiro has been using as lawn furniture, “I feel bad just watching.”

Keith pulls his hat off, and sets it down in the grass beside him. “I already told you not to worry about it,” he says, pushing the hair back from where its been matted to his forehead by sweat before accepting the drink from Shiro. “Wasn’t much you could’ve done anyway. You can’t beat yourself up over that.”

“I know,” Shiro shrugs, “but it doesn’t stop me from feeling like I could have done more. I’m not sure how to repay you, either.”

Keith looks over to him, taking a long drink from his glass. “You don’t have to repay nothing. I’m just here to help.”

“I know--I just--” Shiro lets out a sound of frustration, “I’m just not used to people doing everything for me.”

“Look,” Keith turns to face Shiro, and sets his glass on the arm of his chair, “I’m not looking to barge into your life if you don’t want me here, but you don’t have to repay me, Shiro. I ain’t here because I expect something in return, I’m here because Allura told me that you needed help with a leak in your wall. I know you’re not from around here, but in places like this? In Garrison? Neighbors help neighbors, ‘cause there sure as hell ain’t gonna be anyone else here to help you if something goes wrong.” 

Shiro looks down at his hands, chagrined by Keith’s words and the uncomfortable silence that follows. After a beat he asks, “are you hungry?”

“What?”

“You said neighbors take care of each other,” Shiro begins in explanation, eyes trained on his fingers as he clenches and unclenches his fist. “you’ve been working hard all day. Are you hungry?”

Keith furrows his brows, “yeah, I suppose.”

“Well, would you like to stay for dinner?”

 

*****

 

The next time Keith comes to Shiro’s home, it’s with a carton of eggs tucked under one arm.

“You don’t have chickens,” he explains sheepishly when Shiro looks at him inquisitively, and Shiro just shakes his head, a low laugh bubbling out when he accepts them from Keith’s outstretched hands.

“That, I don’t.” he confirms.

Keith’s arrival marks the impending demolition of Shiro’s kitchen wall. The repairwork that Keith had performed on the home’s exterior had endured a downpour just the evening before, and the drywall inside had survived, unscathed by further leaking.

Keith’s text had arrived late last night. _‘hows the wall?’_

 _‘its dry!’_ Shiro replied, having walked to the kitchen on heavy feet to examine the stretch of wall with tired eyes and lazy hands.

So now Keith stands in his kitchen, armed with a dozen eggs and a sledgehammer thrown over his shoulder. His cowboy hat is, as always, perched on his head, and his worn, ragged t-shirt is emblazoned with the words ‘Red Lion Feeds.’

“So how are we going about this?” Shiro asks, shoving the carton of eggs into the fridge door, “I’ve never replaced a wall before.”

Keith sets the head of the sledgehammer down on the floor, and leans on the handle while he walks Shiro through the process, and it’s more than Shiro had anticipated. Demolition, new drywall, spackle, paint. “It’s going to take a couple of days, at best,” Keith explains, “maybe a week, depending.”

Shiro offers to pry the baseboards off of the damaged portion of the wall, ignoring the way little bursts of pain erupt in his shoulder while he pulls at the molding with a crowbar. Keith watches him, arms crossed over his chest; his expression is tense, brows pinched together.

He wants to step in, take over, and tell Shiro to rest. Tell him to not worry, that he can take care of it. Shiro can see it in the way Keith’s fingers twitch when Shiro pauses to stretch, wincing at the feeling, and in the way he worries the corner of his lip when Shiro holds his breath against the pain.

But he says nothing, and instead allows Shiro to work at his own slow pace.

When Shiro has finished, he is seated cross-legged on the floor, with pieces of splintered wood around him, and he twists around to look up to Keith, a smile painted on his face.

“You can toss those in the back of my truck, if you’d like,” the corner of Keith’s mouth quirks up in response, and he cocks his head towards the door, “I’ll get started on this wall.”

The day passes quickly. Shiro helps where he can, mostly with small things, but Keith keeps giving him the tools he needs to fix things where he can. By mid afternoon, Shiro has fixed the loose doorknob on the office, as well as the leaky tap in the bathroom, and Keith has discovered that Shiro’s insulation may be lacking.

“What are _those_ ,” Shiro asks, leaning in close to the dusty fabric in Keith’s hand.

Keith laughs,“feed bags,” he shakes them a bit, and a cloud of dust comes billowing out,  “the Newmans must’ve used old feed bags as insulation when they built the house.”

“Why would you use that?” Shiro is baffled by the wrinkled bag that Keith is holding out to him, and reaches out to take it, “I don’t feel like this would do much of anything.”

“Maybe not,” Keith admits, pulling another bag from the exposed inner workings of Shiro’s wall to examine himself, “but it’s better than nothing. They probably didn’t have anything else.”

 

*****

 

The repair on Shiro’s wall takes just over a week from start to finish.

Keith will show up mid-morning, assign Shiro to some task around the house, and will work in the kitchen himself. Each evening, Keith stays over for dinner, and peppers Shiro’s meals with compliments while Shiro insists that “it’s the least I can do when you’re helping me out.”

Keith shrugs each time, “I told you that it’s just what we do out here.”

Shiro grows accustomed to Keith’s presence. The man is mostly quiet, yet determined to pry Shiro open bit by bit. He asks questions when Shiro least expects them, startles him into answering, and files his responses away with little acknowledgements. Oddly enough, Shiro  finds that he doesn’t mind.

While they’re patching the drywall:  “Where are you from, Shiro?”

“New York,” Shiro answers.

As they’re picking tools up: “Allura told me you were in the military?”

He nods, “yeah, Air Force.”

One evening over plates of lasagna: “This is so good, who taught you to make this?”

“Adam,” Shiro shrugs.

When they’re painting the new baseboard: “Who is Adam?”

Without thinking Shiro replies, “My ex.”

That is the only response Shiro has supplied that has given Keith pause. It is such a brief reaction that Shiro almost doesn’t notice the way that Keith’s fingers tighten around the brush in his hands and his eyes dart over to look at Shiro before refocusing on his work. The silence doesn’t last long though, as Keith plunges them into an entirely new conversation about how to castrate a bull. Shiro laughs, enjoys the company, and is both equal parts disgusted and delighted by Keith’s stories.

Shiro could get used to this, he realizes--could get used to having a friend around. It’s the first time in a long time that he’s welcomed someone new into his life, and he preemptively mourns the project’s completion, when Keith will inevitably disappear from Shiro’s life, pulled back to his duties on the ranch.  

Shiro’s shoulder aches constantly, but it’s worth it for the progress they make, slowly piecing together a puzzle in his home, and by the time it’s completed, the kitchen looks immaculate. The wall is sturdy now, no longer spongy from the wet, and the entire room has been repainted in a soft cream that pulls golden in the morning light, and a dull lavender grey at dusk.

Keith stands alongside Shiro as they appraise their work, and nudges him softly with an elbow, gesturing to the wall.  “Lookin’ good, huh?”

Shiro’s eyes sweep the room, before landing on Keith, “Yeah,” he affirms, “looking good.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> come say hi on [tumblr](http://patienceyieldslove.tumblr.com/) and [twitter](https://twitter.com/sheithinlove) and ask me what demon possessed my body and made me write 4.5k of sheith fixing a wall, and then told me not to publish it for three weeks after completion!!


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